‘Tis the Preseason

I’m sitting here listening to a jazzy instrumental elevator music version of “I’ll be home for Christmas” that I awesomely somehow own. Why would I be doing such a thing? I guess I’m just in that kind of Christmasy mood. To be honest, this is old news…I’ve been sneaking the odd Christmas carol almost since that first freak snowfall Oxford had that lasted for about three seconds. Usually I’m morally opposed to family members and radio stations and department stores piping out festive tunes as soon we’ve all finished gorging ourselves on Halloween candy, but for some reason this year I’m really getting into the spirit of things. It might be because Thanksgiving a non-issue for Brits (although I did have a very pleasant T. dinner provided by the caring LMH staff), or maybe it’s because the shops don’t have a lawsuit on their hands every time they play “Hark! The herald angels sing” (which means less “Christmas Shoes”…although, strangely, they count that Donnie Darko version of “Mad World” as a Christmas song? Explain?), or just possibly it’s because – as evidenced by these entries so far – the UK can do no wrong in my rose-tinted view; regardless, I’ve got Christmas fever.

I won’t go so far as to say that Oxford – and the rest of the UK – hasn’t bought into the commercialism of the holidays. By day, the main streets are full of shoppers and buskers and people dressed in funny costumes handing out flyers and, of course, Christmas songs. But once the sun sets (at 4pm), the decorative lights go on over the streets, twinkling in the cold, misty air, and it feels a bit less materialistic. One evening, I was walking through town on my way to a sparkly social dinner (with orange chocolate mousse! and mulled wine!), when I stumbled into some kind of techno parade. It was very surreal-looking – a dark, swirling crowd, and these slow, still stilt-walkers wearing glowing white costumes, followed by children carrying lanterns. They’d also hung some kind of massive planetarium above Broad Street on cranes, and there’s a large tree strung with white lights. No ice rink yet, but I’m still hoping. Meanwhile, up in Norham Gardens, LMH has her own Christmas tree in the quad, which makes me feel all bubbly. It’s a Charlie Brown kind of tree, listing to one side, and possibly planted into the pavestones, but it’s got bright blue lights on it, so that, “when it’s dark and you can’t actually see the tree, it looks quite pretty.” The rector of the chapel also appears to be supervising some kind of massive operation to bring as much outdoors indoors, and everywhere you look along the route from the front entrance to college to the chapel, there are bits of pine needles on the ground that must have fallen off all the greenery that is now adorning the altar, pews, etc. And, lest the pagans who prefer to eat than worship feel left out, there is also a small tree in the balcony above the dining hall, which on Friday afternoon was being installed along with a series of barrels? Ye olde Yuletide barrel?

Eighth week at Oxford is really just devolving into a series of Christmas parties and carol services, which is bad news for me, who hasn’t actually started that one last essay for Developmental. Still, I’ve been to two different CU socials (one of which lead to my precipitous engagement…congratulations are in order), I’ve painted my fingernails snowflake silver, and I’ve amassed all of my red and green clothing items. I’m ready. (Also, I’ve got that “snowball sweater.” You know the one.) I kicked off the week with a spontaneous trip to London along with the law students in order to see the Magna Carta and other human rights documents. And also to shop. I submit that both of those actions are appropriately Christmas-themed. And may I also say that I love London. In addition, I’ve shopped around Oxford for some Christmas presents for friends…yes, I ended up buying some things for myself as well…and for a bop outfit. Last night’s Christmas bop had a tricky theme (XXXmas/Santa and his Ho Ho Hos…some things are universal), but I ended up fashioning a fairly successful skirt and hat combo out of wrapping paper for a Christmas cracker costume. Crackers being those tube-shaped packages that pop open with a bang and contain a cheap little toy and paper crown. I decided against the “pull me” tag, although that would have fit in nicely with the theme. Hm. Anyway, I was hardly overdoing it with the paper skirt…there were presents, and reindeer, and Christmas trees, and quite a few people not wearing much more than tinsel, and an overwhelming percentage of men in very tiny red dresses, much to the consternation of poor old Texas-bred Pentagon John. He bore it like a gentleman, true to form.

So that’s eighth week, and it’s not even Monday. Three or four more Carol services, two more fancy dinners, and in one week I’ll be getting on a plane to return to America for a bit more than a month, to repeat the whole Christmas process. Which is probably the strangest thing of all. Eight weeks is such a short time…I can’t believe I’m almost done! I do miss you all though, and it will be good to come back home and have a turkey dinner complete with cranberry sauce. And then before I know it, I’ll be jetting back across the pond, to stay until June…ah! It’s coming! Although, so is Christmas.

Hi There

Goodness, it’s been over a week since I last posted. You’re probably all thinking I went and signed up for that pain experiment after all and lost all my fingers or something. Because that is the only thing that would stop me from writing. In actuality though, I’ve been incredibly busy and just haven’t had the time or the energy to look around meditatively for a good story. (Oh, by the way…that last entry about science was supposed to be light and funny and the responses I got all seemed pretty concerned. I’m fine! Lighten up!) But I do feel pretty guilty about leaving you all in the dark for so long, so I’ll include a couple of diary-like snippets from the past week or so to let you know how I’ve been doing. It’s been a real rollercoaster! Wooo…

Right, so the first thing you’ve missed out on would be my whirlwind illness which struck in one day, caused me to briefly lose my mind (out of my nose?) and then slunk away, allowing me to shakily recover just in time to correct my drug-addled essay of the week. Thanks to John, who brought me some bananas, a good old US of A pb&j, and some cold meds. I also recovered just in time to go to an Arsenal! game in London with Dave and John, although I think the only thing that would have stopped me would have been if, when I tried to walk out the door, I literally began vomiting fonts of blood. Dedication. And too much information.

So, the game was pretty fantastic – I am infatuated with London, and getting there from Oxford (wonderfully surreal as it is) for a bit would have been totally worthwhile even if there wasn’t football/soccer/calcio (no!) to be had. And there was. After an exciting meal of Lebanese food just outside Paddington station, we boarded the tube to Arsenal! along with an enormous crowd of hooligans. Actually, the crowd was not as raucous as I had expected…sure, they were lively, but their main activity consisted of shouting, “Arsenal!” in different intonations. And nearly everyone was sober; no drinking is allowed in the stands, and not many people wanted to abandon the match to drink a beer in the cold and windy corridors. Still, it was very very exciting and lots of fun, etc. and afterward, Dave, John, John’s friend Andrew, and I went back to a pub called The Mitre for some ciders while we waited for our late-night train back to college.

Speaking of, I’ve now got a secondary tutorial. And oh…my, this tutor is quite the experience. I mean, walking the line between biology and psychology, I’ve started to suspect that a large percentage of the people who go into study of “the mind” aren’t entirely in their right one, but Mrs. D takes that to a whole new level. She’s clearly brilliant – trying to have a conversation about acquisition of mathematical ability with her that didn’t make me look like an infant was a heart attack and a half – but something is funny about her, and not in a ha-ha kind of way. I can’t quite put my finger on it…she wears crazy old lady clothes, seems not to brush her hair, gesticulates compulsively when she talks, and has a voice that is squeaky and creaky and gravelly all at the same time. She doesn’t often look you in the eye. But that doesn’t really capture it. While Jane, another American from LMH who takes tutorial with me, was taking up Mrs. D’s attention, I sneakily (and horribly) recorded her talking on my phone. You can’t really distinguish the words, and again it doesn’t really give the full effect, but now I can show it to Dad and see what he thinks. Autism? Savant syndrome? It sounds like Monty Python in drag.

Last night I stayed up very late writing an essay for my primary tutorial. At around three in the morning, I took a break from books and brains and drowned out the sounds of late-night rain with the Ramones’ Beat on the Brat (oh yeah oohoh) while eating pomegranate seeds and pine nuts. I finished my written obeisance to the splendiforous nature of the brain a bit after that to the stirring measures of the Ride of the Valkyries. I’ve reached new heights of absurdity. Also, my essay habits are almost certainly ruined for when I go back to college in the States; I start papers the night before and slap them together in this crazy fashion I won’t get into, but suffice it to say that I’m enjoying living on the edge of deadlines a little too much.

I’ve made a few new friends, though, despite all of the work (shocking!). Of course, there’s David and John, my Arsenal! buddies…we’re kind of like the three musketeers, if two of the three musketeers had decided to periodically gang up on the other one. But it’s all in good spirits. I’ve taught them how to iron and make tea and so on and they’ve taken me to see Shimon Peres speak at the Sheldonian Theatre. Which, by the way, was an incredible night that started with picketing Palestinians and rickrolling and ended with everyone going out to Tolkein and Lewis’ (and the rest of the Inklings’) favorite haunt, the Eagle and Child pub. I’m also friends with most of the other Americans – I mentioned Jane already, and there’s Katie, who helped me beat D&J at a homemade game of trivial pursuit, the stakes of which were a trip to an icecream parlor. Katie and I apparently really know our wars. Maybe.

Most of the people I’ve met have been either internationals or first years…there’s Owen, who I’m trying to pry away from his law books to translate for me some songs I know in Welsh; there’s Kalpana and Anya, who can usually be counted on to take up feminist arms against John or Dave’s teasing remarks; I now know Sophia (German) and Rafi (Jewish), two second-years who I’ve met in my psychology lectures. I’ve also got a bunch of acquaintances from LMH Food Club who I think I can bribe into full-blown friendship with a second round of chicken piccata and rocket salad. And I’ve pulled some strings to meet some Oxford veterans: third- and fourth-years and graduate students, like the painfully shy Stefan-the-Brandonite, a geologist who showed me around the city, or Simon, a biochemist I met at a little hipster coffee shop who seemed cute and friendly, but who I think I may have blown it with by shouting stupid things at high speeds at him for a half hour (I was feeling a bit wired after a near-death bicycle experience). Anyway, he has a girlfriend. Although we did bond over how we both have Indian friends who might take us to India and wouldn’t that be fantastic. Oh and there is my Rhodes scholar/Richmond connection Scott and his girlfriend Nina who have taken me to a Rhodes Scholar lecture and the MCR – a kind of graduate common area full of free port and whiskey and a dartboard and a Wii. And now this paragraph is getting really long and I think I’d better cut it off, even though I haven’t really described anyone to any degree of accuracy and someone is probably taking offence right now because I haven’t included them on “the list.”

Anyway. The point is, that everything is really good and I’m busy and panicky but also having as much fun as I’ve had in a long time. And I’m generally very happy! And I’m using exclamation points…call the National Guard.

Lab Rats (and Silly Hats)

I’ve found a way to make a couple of extra pounds while I’m hanging around Oxford’s science block. Now don’t be alarmed…I haven’t started selling my blood yet. Just my brainpower. So far I’ve made over 75 pounds (that’s…let’s see…$120?) by helping out around some of the psych labs. And okay fine, when I say helping out, I mean acting as a test subject. But I'm a poor impoverished college student, so I’d still say the ends justify the means.

My induction into the ranks of lab rats was given by David S. and his wunder-colleague Marco. After a day of being trained in a dark room to pick out the lighter of two grainy grey squares on a computer screen, David and Marco had me don an exciting electrode-covered cap and hooked me up to the EEG machine, a lengthy process that involved a lot of saline solution and grinding of sponges into my scalp. Interestingly, the sound I made while Marco and David were working away was also “eeg.” At last, I was ready to go. I had the cap on for recording any electrical impulses and the keyboard in my lap for selecting the correct box, and I was sitting in my little metal room looking at the computer screen.

The task went like this: center your vision on a black screen until two grey boxes flash up, choose the box that is slightly less grey with the corresponding keyboard buttons, and then touch a third button if you think you made a mistake. Yes, this type of research could definitely have cosmic repercussions. In phase one, if you answered right but thought you got it wrong, you lost ten pence, whereas the other combinations were plus or minus two pence. In phase two, you lost ten pence if you answered incorrectly but thought you got it right. That probably makes no sense, but trust me when I say there are strategies for making the most money, strategies that caused my brain to go up in a cloud of smoke. Marco and co. measured my thoughts and, inadvertently, my level of anxiety – neural activity is electrical in nature, but so is muscle movement, and midway through the first trial I discovered a loophole that made my jaw clench and my back stiffen and my shoulders tense while I wrestled with an ethical issue of epic proportions. After I resolved the moral crisis by deciding to play the game according to the rules, pennies be damned, my neural signal was very nice and pretty (apparently), but showed signs of being exhausted. I think Marco was laughing at me in German guffaws. At the end of the experiment, I was too scared to ask D. and M. if they had intended to cause me to question my core values, choosing instead to skip down the hall with 30 pounds in my hot little hand. I’m a complex individual.

And onto the next experiment…with Riikka the sadistic yet friendly Swedish postgrad student. I think being a psych experimenter calls for a bit of a desire to crush the human spirit. Where David and Marco used electroencephalography, Riikka employed TEM, which involves magnets but is nothing like MRI. I did get earplugs and another hat – a white cap that made me look like a water polo player, or an epileptic. TEM is this space-age technology that uses electromagnetic fields not to measure brain signals, but to actually stimulate – instigate – a neural reaction. So yeah, mind control. Riikka was focusing on my motor cortex, specifically the part of my brain that controls the muscles between my first finger and thumb. In trying to find this sweet spot, though, she zapped my facial muscles…so that was different. And, in keeping with all those reflex tests I fail, I am a little dead inside, and we had to up the magnetic zapping to 60 or 70% to get the amplitude of signal in my hands. Some serious face spasms were had; I felt like Mr. Phipps of 8th grade mathematical fame, post-stroke. Ahaha…not funny. Yes. Riikka stood behind me and shocked my cranium with an electromagnet while her nameless assistant (I shall call her Igor. Okay, Igorette.) showed me little clips of a woman gesturing goofily. My hands jerked about uncontrollably on my lap as I labeled the clips as single motions, repeated motions, or stills. Some of the motions were then revealed to me by Igorette to be sign language…I learned things like book, cat, trousers, and chef, and then sat back down for round two of TEM where I identified the same gesture videos. I think Riikka was trying to see if my arms moved more when stimulated after seeing a real sign and less when seeing something still, but I'm not exactly sure because I never got debriefed. (Ooh!) I guess the UK doesn’t have the same kinds of human research laws. Which actually makes me a little nervous about the rest of the experiment…but no, I’m fine. No probdf!lkk.3sdglems at lall.sf.@.

The last experiment I did was more sedate, and involved not a single hat, although I did have to wear some large, sound-cancelling headphones. This time around, I was not zapped or probed, and I even made friends with Jennifer, an Irish postgrad working in the linguistics lab. She gave me some advice about how to get into some of the labs around Oxford short of signing up for neural rewiring. We met five times for half an hour each time, and mostly I just spent the time watching these videos of puppets hitting each other and saying things in gibberish. I did have to take this intelligence type test on the first day where I looked at three little abstract pictures and pick the one that will complete the pattern, or repeated nonsense words like “ensclivereminence and “pramascenate” back from a tape, or defined big English words. Which was actually quite difficult – what is the definition of “balloon” (expandable plastic...bag...filled with air or water?) or “purpose” (ummm, mission? calling?) – although I only got stumped by “panacea.” The results of that test at least say I’m not terribly stupid.

Which is actually a problem for these experiments, I think? I wonder what kind of results the experimenters here are getting, with their test subjects being a bunch of inquisitive Oxford psych students who are trying to get the bottom of any test to figure out what, exactly, is going on. Anyway, I think I’ll continue to sign up for these little adventures while I’ve got the time; money aside, it’s an interesting way to explore the different facilities and meet the up-and-coming researchers around Oxford, even if it isn’t the most prestigious way to go about it. I’ve just been alerted to a new study that could double my income, and it even pays for transportation…I’d just have to get injected with some sort of drug and then be subjected to different painful stimuli…hmm. Well, maybe I’ll keep looking.

Impolitic

It may have come to your attention that November 4th was the culmination of the American presidential race. You’d have to be slightly more culturally cognizant to notice that November 5th was Bonfire Night, a holiday the British celebrate to commemorate a guy who didn’t blow up Parliament. I’m sure you’ll never guess which one I was more looking forward to (pyro that I am), or which night ended up being the more explosive of the two. If you can’t figure it out, though, read on – I’ll try to be enlightening!

For me, both days started off grey and a bit rainy, and without much planning at all. My vote went in several weeks ago, by mail in an official white envelope. So that was all taken care of. After waiting in vain for someone to convince me clearly and in small words why I needed to choose one candidate over the other, after trawling the internet looking for “the Truth,” I stared at my yellow slip of paper for a long time before hesitantly filling in one innocuous oval. I didn’t play eenie-meenie-meiny-mo, but I also think I may have been the only American who wasn’t prepared to shed tears over one candidate or the other, a condition which lasted up to and beyond election night. As to the 5th of November (remember, remember!), I’d done my Guy Fawkes research years ago, and while I thought wistfully of bottle rockets and Catherine wheels, I had papers to write, and so headed to the library instead.

It’s strange, but I felt like more of an impartial onlooker on the night of the 4th than on the night of the 5th. I guess I feel responsible for my country, but I don’t love it. I don’t know America; I just like my home and the Americans I know. Or, most of them, at least. Maybe I’ve gotten too good at dissociating from emotional events. Maybe I’m unpatriotic.

Still, while watching the results come in at 2am on the morning of the 5th, surrounded by wine-drinking, rambunctious, hopeful students from all over the world, I continued to realize how big an event this election was perceived to be. I spoke with my family a few days ago, and Mom joked that I could play the sort of game where everyone has to drink when they hear phrases like, “historic election,” or “the voters have spoken.” Things were clearly getting reckless in the battleground state of Pennsylvania. Anyway, as cheesy and overused as those phrases are, they are also kind of true. So. I’d say I’m pleased that America – particularly “Generation Why” and our record levels of apathy – was able to get out of its collective comfy chair and take the time to get informed and vote. Or at least, to move voting into internet forums. Nevertheless…it’s also nice to see that, for the first time since I’ve been studying abroad, the world appears fully and actively behind America as a whole. Time will tell if this attitude is genuine or lasting, but I personally am tired of the us vs. them mentality (both at home and abroad), and now that the election is over, I hope we can put partisan attitudes behind us and just get on with the 21st century.

And that CNN hologram was pretty darn cool. “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi! You’re my only hope!”

As to the president elect…I’m not convinced he’s a good man (um…who is, if they’ve decided to go into politics?), but he does look to be a good leader. Maybe exactly what we need right now is a smooth-talking guy with big dreams and an ego to match…at least it’ll be a change, that’s for sure. And I guess all of the disappointed Republicans will be using their time in the wings to shape up a nice, constructive plan for implementation in four years. And here are some more immediate changes I personally am looking forward to: no more speculation and accusation, no more cute kids under the age of 18 singing about voting, no more tensing up anytime someone mentions lipstick. Now that’s something I can believe in.

And now for something completely different.

Guy Fawkes Day! I may not be party-affiliated, nor particularly country-affiliated, but I can really get into a good national holiday. Sadly, this too is going to end up being something of a pithy story. Everyone was so exhausted by the election the night before – I think half the college stayed up until Ohio was counted at least – that Bonfire Night was more bust than bang. True, all through the night there were minor cracks and fizzes that put me in mind of France this summer, and over dinner some friends and I put together some grandiose plans to out-British the Brits, but soggy skies (okay and some apathy on my part) put a damper on the evening. One of the Americans has Pentagon connections. With “insider information” on explosives…I’ll say no more, but my weekend does look like I’ll have some time with nothing else to do. Maybe light some hand sanitizer on fire. I hope.

Speaking of the weekend, I think I can say that, to my mind at least, the States’ hegemony status is not dead: the fancy dress bop theme for Saturday evening has nothing to do with bonfires or arson and everything do to with “All-American.” Whatever that means. So I’m off to design a costume – I think I’ll (hypocritically) go as myself?

Sunday with the Family

I’ve been asked several times now if, what with all this world-travelling I’ve been doing, I ever get homesick. I tend to answer no; I love my family and friends, I do sometimes miss my favorite meals and my own bed, and going back home is always really nice, but I think I’m the kind of person who was born to travel (Thursday’s child – we’ve been over this). I don’t mind being alone. I like independence. I never get tired of exploring. However, this weekend is half-term, when all the Freshers’ families come for a visit, and I can’t deny I was feeling the tiniest bit abandoned.

After having seen groups of loving parents embracing their prodigies and flocks of precocious-sounding little children touring the gardens all of Friday, I was surprisingly resentful. In an attempt to fend off any bitterness, I cooked a large pasta dinner for some of My Fellow Americans on Saturday evening (new plan: bribe friends to be friends with delicious food) – and it worked well – but what to do Sunday? This whole Sabbath-day-of-no-working has been going really swimmingly, but the forecast called for rain, and with the majority of my friends entertaining their families, this Sunday seemed like it was headed for a lot of solitary reflection. Okay, I’m taking the Sabbath off for religious reasons, but my intent wasn’t to go stir-crazy in my room…the plan was to have a leisurely church experience and then a fun and relaxing remainder of the day.

Until…hang on…for those of you who know I have a cricket bat in my basement and suspect that I celebrate Bonfire Night, I am about to submit some damning evidence for the case of my British poseur nature. I called up my adoptive British grandparents. (Aha!) So Barbara and Dick Ashley are a lovely (Aha!) couple who, along with their extended family, have taken us Ruzichs under their collective wing ever since I was a wee lass (Aha!) living down the road from the Lakenheath base in Brandon.

And the Ashleys agreed to drive up from Cambridge, and everything was perfect. I woke up on Sunday morning, pedaled down to the town center in the rain, and met them in time to get some coffee before going to church. I love being out in a light rain...it makes me feel especially alive. Weird. We attended St. Michael at the North Gate, a hilarious little place in which our threesome increased the assembly by twenty percent while at the same time lowering the average age by about fifteen years. (That last part was all me.) We prayed for the quick and the dead, heard an elderly clergyman with wild eyebrows and comb-over to match deliver a sermon that concluded with the phrase, “Whatever. God is really our Father,” and sang a closing hymn entirely reminiscent of a Mr. Bean sketch. Alleluia. (Yes, another obscure British humor reference…sorry…)

After fulfilling this part of my Sabbath, I showed Mr. Ashley the Concept (he recommended some WD-40 for the chain), and took the two of them back to my college for a guided tour. Miss Barbara loved the gardens, despite their wet and wintery state, and Mr. Ashley spent some time making quacking noises at the duck pond and contrasting my dorm room with some lodgings he once had to live in. My room came out on top. By a lot.

Over lunch, we got a chance to catch up. I’ve known the Ashleys forever, but I’ve never gotten a chance to really talk to them. I never knew, for instance, that Barbara first met her father at age five when he returned from the RAF after World War Two, or that Dick’s grandfather was a Welsh cobbler, or that Judy, their pet dog who I knew as a child, was a foxhunting hound. I really like learning about people’s lives – I’m still that person who sat on a train to Lyon and imagined where the people next to me had been or where they were headed. (Funnily enough, they had been to Aix, and they were going to Lyon.) Barbara and Dick have been married for nearly fifty years. I think that’s fantastic. (Aha!)

They say you can’t choose your family, and I wouldn’t want to change a thing about mine, but now that I’ve been given a third set of grandparents, I think that "they" are wrong. I'll pick who I want – for me, family is no more constrained by blood ties than home is constrained to a geographic location. ...And all that rubbish.